


The Queen's Musketeers

by AliciaLuar, breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: All4One Big Bang 2014, Alternate Universe - Matriarchy, Canon Era, Community: all4onebigbang, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-22
Updated: 2014-09-22
Packaged: 2018-02-18 10:16:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2344745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliciaLuar/pseuds/AliciaLuar, https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Fleur Baudin swears to avenge the mysterious death of her sister Thérèse, the killer’s trail leads her to Ninon de Larroque, elite swordswoman of the Queen’s Musketeers, and implicates her in a conspiracy against the crown. But when it becomes clear that Ninon is more victim than perpetrator, Fleur must join forces with fellow Musketeers Flea and Constance Bonacieux to clear Ninon’s name and bring Thérèse’s killer to justice…</p><p>Fanfic by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken">breathtaken</a>, featuring fanvid by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/alicialuar">AliciaLuar</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Queen's Musketeers

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is unofficially dedicated to Tamla Kari, who said in a recent Twitter Q&A that if she could direct an episode of the show, the women would be ‘Musketeerettes’. While I can’t quite make that happen, I hope this is a good second best.
> 
> Special thanks to [AliciaLuar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/alicialuar) for using their talents to produce the gorgeous fanvid below.

 

* * *

 

The first sign that something was wrong, in hindsight, should have been that all the candles were still lit.

Fleur has never known Mother Gilbert stay in the church after midnight except on the high holy days; and she clearly heard the clock strike one on her way here, noted the heavy clanging of the bell overlaying the sound of her boots pounding along the deserted street, where the stars framed the church’s spire as it reached up into the night.

The heavy wooden door is ajar; and for some reason, that sight fills her with dread.

Fleur squeezes through the crack, manoeuvring her sword behind her with one hand, poised to draw should she need to; but the candles burning in every sconce show the place is deserted.

“Thérèse!” she calls out, straining her ears for the answering sound of her sister’s voice; but all she hears is her own words echoed back to her again and again from along the vaulted ceiling – as if God Herself is mocking her, she thinks heretically.

Her head swims with questions – what was Thérèse even _doing_ here, for a start – but she pushes them all out of her mind. Questions can come later; for now, she just has to concentrate on finding her. She’s head of the family now, and it’s her responsibility to see her sister safe and in her own bed, where she should be at this time of night.

Fleur doesn’t dare to call out again, something nameless lodging in her throat and staying her voice as she walks the length of the nave, the noise of her boots on the stone floor ringing in her ears, her gaze scanning restlessly along the lengths of the pews. Perhaps Thérèse came here to pray, though it would be the first time – that Fleur knows of, at least.

Waking to find her sister’s side of the bed cold, a cryptic note on the dresser (and how did she slip away in the night without Fleur even noticing?) – perhaps she knows her less well than she thought.

Fleur climbs the steps to stand before the altar, bows her head – and time seems to stop as she turns towards the south chapel and sees her sister’s body through the archway, lying twisted and unnatural in the centre of the room.

She stops, frozen in horror, as if willing it will banish the scene before her and Thérèse will rise, turn towards her and smile; then she’s running, and screaming.

“THÉRÈSE!”

She drops to her knees and presses a hand to her sister’s still-warm breast. “Thérèse, can you hear me? Please God, no, no, no…” she begs aloud, pressing harder against her chest as if that will make all the difference, searching desperately for the pulse of life.

Only then does she take in the blood surrounding them both, realises that she’s kneeling in a puddle of it, the wound blooming scarlet through Thérèse’s doublet, just below Fleur’s hand; and falls silent at last when she looks up and takes in the sight of her sister’s glassy, unseeing eyes.

Reaches up, with fingers that shake, to draw them closed.

 _She’s dead_ , Fleur thinks stupidly, _she’s dead;_ and then in her next breath, _I will find out who did this, and I will kill her. I swear it._

It is only when she reaches for Thérèse’s hand that she realises it’s closed around something, and that what looks like a piece of parchment is poking out from her fist.

The death grip has not yet set in, and it is easy to prise open the fingers one by one to reveal that she is indeed holding a rough scrap of parchment, which looks as though it has been torn from a much finer sheet. It’s headed by an unfamiliar crest – featuring some sort of small bird – and a series of numbers are scrawled underneath, that blur through the tears rapidly forming in Fleur’s eyes.

She wipes them angrily away with her hand; but she still can’t make any sense of the numbers, and there’s nothing at all besides them.

What _is_ this?

_I don’t understand._

Her knees are starting to ache against the hard stone floor; and she can feel the warm wetness of the blood beginning to seep through her breeches.

 _I will find out,_ she vows, _and I will get revenge._

 

* * *

 

Constance wakes, as usual, with the dawn; coming back to herself with a force that feels like her dreaming mind being slammed rudely back into her body, she’s wide awake within seconds.

The dream was warm and light, the smell of fresh grass and the sound of a child’s laughter; and as soon as she reaches for the memory of it, it’s already drifted out of reach.

She shrugs her husband’s arm off her shoulder and slides carefully out of bed, holding her breath as he stirs, until it becomes clear he’s not going to wake.

Unobserved, she allows herself the luxury of a small sigh.

It is what it is, that’s all, although not thinking about it is harder on some days than on others. Dwelling won’t make a difference; and so she consciously lets the thoughts go, crossing to the chest by the window with her clothes neatly stacked on top, layers of leather and linen waiting for her to start her day.

Though it’s the last thing she puts on, her doublet always lies folded on top of the pile with her brassard1 facing out into the room, so the embossed fleur-de-lis symbol is the first thing she sees.

 

* * *

 

Seated at the same table she’s been at all night and nursing the last glass from the bottle that’s seen her through it, it’s only the dusky grey light insinuating itself through grimy window panes that tells Flea night has turned to morning.

She decides it doesn’t bother her. She’s never really got the hang of sleeping regular hours.

Her opponent appears to have passed out, soft snores rattling in her throat – still gripping her hand too tightly for it to be worth attempting to prise her fingers open. Flea’s patient though, she can wait. That’s what a childhood of thievery’s taught her: of far more importance than light fingers is the art of choosing your moment.

The woman shifts in her chair, murmuring something indistinct; and as she does so a card falls part out of the end of her sleeve and into view, face-up. The symbol of a queen in one corner clear as day.

 _I bloody knew it,_ Flea thinks, in a moment of disgust that passes as quickly as it comes. It’s not like she objects to cheating on principle, doesn’t have time for such high-minded morals; she just cares when someone’s trying to cheat _her._

Luckily she’s perfectly capable of redressing the insult: lifting a purse from a sleeping victim is child’s play, and besides, she tells herself as she carefully slides a hand under the woman’s half-open doublet and unhooks it from her sword belt, it’s all money she would have earned by now if the play had been fair.

Flea’s halfway to the door when she hears a yelled, “Hell’s bells!” coming from the direction of the bar, followed immediately by the smash of crockery. She winces instinctively.

After that, it’s a matter of seconds before she hears the shout.

“YOU! STOP!”

Luckily the Red Guard’s purse is long secreted about her person; and she can turn around with her best _Who, me?_ expression on her face, in perfect confidence. “I think it’s fair to say we’re done here if one of us passes out, don’t you?” She raises an eyebrow and smirks, just to be annoying.

“You lifted my purse!” the woman shouts, hand going to her sword hilt as she strides towards Flea, expression thunderous.

Flea keeps her hands firmly on her hips, raising one eyebrow. “Prove it. And while we’re on the subject of _personal integrity_ – if you’re going to cheat, you ought to learn to do it properly.”

“Oi!” the barkeeper shouts in their direction, waving the bottle in her hand at them as though it’s a rapier. “If you two want to kill each other, do it outside!”

Flea keeps her expression firmly fixed in place as she moves one hand to her own sword hilt and rests it there, eyeing the guard as if to say, _I’m only going to draw if you do_.

“Good morning,” Constance says suddenly, materialising at her side; and Flea silently blesses her sister’s perfect timing. “And what’s going on here?”

“I believe Bonnaire was just leaving,” Flea replies lightly, never taking her eyes from the woman before her.

“Glad to hear it,” Constance replies, voice hard, as Bonnaire’s eyes flick between the two of them in turn – before she screws up her face in disgust and stalks past them, making sure to jostle Flea’s shoulder.

“Thieving gutter scum,” she mutters, quite audibly.

Constance automatically puts a restraining hand on Flea’s arm; but Flea shakes her gently off. _Pot, kettle,_ she thinks; she’s hardly the one whose temper runs hot.

“If her words were worth anything, she wouldn’t be a Red Guard,” she points out, with a sharp smile that means _don’t bother_. “Is it time already, then?”

As they emerge into the already-bustling street, Constance gives her sister a sidelong glance.

“ _Did_ you do it?”

“Constance, please,” Flea replies with mock-offence – then grins as she conjures a small red leather purse from some obscure place within her doublet, jingling it so Constance can hear the clink of coin. “She was cheating. It was only my due.”

“You’ll be the death of me,” Constance chides; but she’s amused despite herself.

Flea bumps her shoulder in silent gratitude. “Where’s Ninon, anyway?” she asks, putting her hat back on her head.

Constance rolls her eyes. “Where do you think?”

 

* * *

 

Ninon looks up at her favourite boy with drowsy eyes, reaching up to cup his face as if she would memorise the particular line of his jaw, the weight of his brow.

She wants nothing more than to pull him back against her for another round of lovemaking, but the sun’s fully up and she has to face the fact that it’s time to let him go.

 _There’s always something that gets in the way_ , she thinks, torn between wistfulness and annoyance; gives him a last kiss on the lips before rolling out of the bed and bending over to collect the pieces of her uniform, half-strewn around the room as usual.

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” she says seriously, as he helps her wind on her breastband, his touch lingering at the edges of the fabric; though she suspects he’s long past the point of being convinced. “I do love you, you know.”

“And I love you,” he replies; and she feels the press of lips against her still-bare shoulder, the soft bristling of his moustache. “But what’s the use, when you can’t afford to keep me?”

She sighs. He’s right, of course; she does understand, really, that she can’t give him what he deserves. That she can’t expect him to just sit around all day in this dank room with its peeling wallpaper – even if she could scrape together the coin to keep it – counting the minutes until she can come to call on him.

She just wishes there was another way.

“Can’t I at least come and see you sometimes?” she asks, turning to look at him with the pleading eyes that she knows she does so well.

He bites his lip, and she knows he’s tempted; but in the end he shakes his head, as she knew he would. “It’s too dangerous. I have to think of my position.”

“Doesn’t a little danger make it more exciting?” she teases, unable to help herself even though she knows it annoys him – and he just sighs slightly and turns away, not even bothering to reply.

“I understand,” she says in the end, instead of apologising. “Just try not to miss me too much.”

They finish dressing in silence.

As she steps out of the boarding-house into the street, Constance and Flea are lounging against the opposite wall waiting for her, brims of their hats pulled down low; and Ninon finds she isn’t surprised, though she knows for a fact she’s never told either of them about this place.

“Took you long enough,” Flea comments lightly; though there’s something sympathetic in her eyes, and in the way she squeezes Ninon’s arm.

Ninon sighs. “He’s going into service. There’s nothing I can do.”

Constance presses a hand briefly to the small of her back. “He’ll do better there than he would being someone’s kept boy,” she reassures. “I’ve got a brother in service. It’s a good life for them.”

“Yes, he will,” Ninon replies. She shrugs her shoulders carelessly, as if shaking off all of her concern, and the others can see the exact moment her equilibrium returns, this week’s favourite boy forgotten. “I suppose Mother wants to see us again.”

Constance rolls her eyes, in that way she has that means _and guess whose fault it is this time._ “When does she not?”

 

* * *

 

 _Shit,_ Fleur thinks as she rounds a corner and comes face to face with a marketplace that she’s pretty sure she’s already seen once this morning. _Shit, shit, shit_.

How long will she keep going round in circles for, before she finally admits to herself that she’s well and truly lost?

She should have taken some time to plan this properly, rather than just dropping everything and rushing from place to place like a woman possessed; but taking time to plan would have meant taking time to consider, to _think_ , and she knows that she can’t afford to think.

Thinking would have meant collapsing, breaking down, like Father did.

But Fleur is responsible, and so she had to act: waking Sister Dufresne, waking her father; calling on Mother Jeanette her tutor while it was still dark, scanning page after page of her heraldry book until she found what she was looking for.

The crest that bore an image of a wren, wreathed in vines.

Her index finger trembled as it followed along the words beneath.

_De Larroque. Comté, 1224-1625. Lands forfeited to the Crown._

_[…]_

_Ninon, Comtesse de Larroque (b. 1601)_

And a few hours later she’s in another district of Paris entirely, with nothing more than a few coins in her purse and a sword at her hip, walking along the same streets and through the same squares over and over with no idea how she’s going to find the Comtesse de Larroque in a city of thousands – if the woman even still lives.

She needs to… sit down somewhere, perhaps, and take a few moments to come up with something resembling a plan – she should be alright as long as she keeps her focus and doesn’t let any stray thoughts in, that she can ill afford. She’ll go somewhere warmer, perhaps, like a tavern. Why does she feel so cold, when the sun’s nearly at full height already?

She walks straight into the person in front of her without even realising.

“Oh!” she exclaims, her hand going straight to her sword hilt – but as she blinks away the sudden greyness from her vision, she realises it’s only a man. A total stranger, of course – but there’s something working its way loose in her, something wild and raw, and she’s so _tired_ ; and despite all propriety she can’t help but clutch at the arms that have come out to steady her, and rests her head against the material of his doublet, pretending for a moment that he’s her father.

He draws back immediately, holding her at arm’s length as if she’s dangerous. “My lady, please!” he protests in a low hiss, “I’m a married man! I have to think of my reputation.”

She’s about to ask why he’s still holding onto her then, until she realises she’s the one still holding onto him, her fingers digging into the embroidered wool of his sleeves; and she lets go as quickly as if she’s been burned.

It’s on her lips to apologise when her vision suddenly goes grey and fuzzy around the edges once more; and the last thing she hears is the man’s voice asking, “Are you alright?” as if from far away, before everything goes black.

The next thing she knows she’s lying on an unfamiliar bed, something cool and moist pressing against her brow; and she blinks her heavy eyelids open, the face of the man from the marketplace swimming into focus.

Then she realises that she’s in just her shirt and breeches, and her sword belt’s gone too – and she scrambles up and curls in on herself against the headboard like a cat poised to strike, her hand creeping down to the spare dagger that’s tucked into her boot.

“What happened?” she demands. “Who are you?”

He draws back, holding his hands up in a defensive gesture, a wet cloth in one of them. “You fainted in the marketplace, madame, I couldn’t just leave you there. My name is Aramis, husband of Madame Murchand.”

He offers her his other hand, with a bright, easy smile that Fleur is sure works very well in charming a lot of women.

She decides she doesn’t trust it one bit.

She still presses his hand briefly, for propriety’s sake if nothing else, before getting to her feet – which is more difficult than she’d like; and looking around the room, she spots her effects lying on top of a chest against the wall. “My apologies for the inconvenience, monsieur,” she replies, reaching for her doublet. “I won’t trouble you any further.”

“Won’t you at least rest a while?” he insists, as she does up her buttons with clumsy fingers. “Or at least allow me to offer you some food. I’ve freshly-baked bread, and there’s chicken too.”

While Fleur knows she cannot allow herself to rest – the weight of her grief already pressing insistently at her chest – the unexpected plaintiveness in his tone fills her with sudden guilt. She can just imagine her mother’s rebuke: this man is doing her a great kindness, and she’s brushing him off without a thought!

“Thank you, monsieur,” she replies, meeting his eye and forcing a cordial smile to her face, though it feels as though her features barely cooperate, “for your offer of hospitality. And my name is Baudin. But I’m afraid I have pressing business to settle, and I cannot afford to dally.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Madame Baudin,” Monsieur Murchand replies, bowing with a flourish that’s at once both ostentatious and utterly knowing, which would probably have brought a smile to her face were she not worn out past the point of finding anything funny any more. “Are you sure I can’t be of any assistance to you?”

“Not unless you happen to know the whereabouts of the Comtesse de Larroque,” Fleur replies distractedly, buckling her sword belt back into place.

“Ninon de Larroque,” he repeats – and something in his tone shocks Fleur back into attention. “I do know her, as it happens. She’s a friend of my wife’s.”

“Where can I find her?” Fleur demands, courtesy all but forgotten in the face of such unexpected good fortune.

He blinks at her in surprise, but replies readily enough. “She’s one of the Queen’s Musketeers. The garrison is on Rue de Vieux Colombier, it’s not far from here. You can ask for her there.”

 _A Musketeer_?

Fleur hesitates, her mind suddenly flooded with questions.

A Musketeer, and a _murderer?_

She’s longed to be a Musketeer her whole life. Could she ever hope to be a match for one of them?

 _It’s for Thérèse,_ she reminds herself; and she _will_ avenge her death. Nothing else matters.

“Thank you, monsieur, you have my gratitude. Good day,” she replies shortly, turning on her heel and ignoring the unsteadiness in her steps as she marches quickly from the house, not looking back.

It takes her less than a quarter-hour to find the Musketeers’ garrison – the Rue de Vieux Colombier is a major thoroughfare, a steady stream of men in their carriages and women on horseback passing by, and the tall, heavy wooden gates reinforced with bars of steel set into a high stone wall can only indicate one thing.

The courtyard within is both large and near-deserted, and Fleur feels both very small and very young as she walks through the open gate, pulling herself up through her spine and jutting her chin defiantly.

“I’m looking for Ninon de Larroque,” she calls out, as loudly and as bravely as she can; and it’s only a moment before a voice answers from her side, the speaker hidden beneath an awning and out of the glare of the sun.

“You’ve found her.”

The woman who steps out of the shade is dressed in a soldier’s grey-blue leathers that have clearly seen some years of service, but perfectly complement her pale, aristocratic skin and the blonde braid of hair that matches Fleur’s own. Her features are long and proud under the brim of her hat; and even if she hadn’t known it, Fleur would be able to read her nobility in her face. Beside her, she feels a commoner and a child both.

She sets her jaw.

Time to do what she came here to do.

“I hold you responsible for the death of my sister Thérèse Dubois, and I will be revenged.”

De Larroque opens her mouth to reply, but the voice Fleur hears comes from another source entirely: “That’s quite an entrance.”

Her head whips round to see that they’re being observed – two soldiers are standing on a flight of stairs, leaning over the banister to watch. They’re a brunette and a redhead, pale as milk. It was the redhead who spoke, and the brunette is laughing.

Fleur feels her hackles rise; but she forces herself to concentrate and looks back at the Comtesse, who’s tilted her head, frowning. “I don’t know that name,” she replies carefully. “Was she a soldier?”

“She was a _child_ ,” Fleur spits.

De Larroque’s expression clouds over. “Then you are mistaken. I can assure you that I don’t go around killing children.”

As she starts to turn away, the wild thing growing in Fleur’s chest takes over, flooding her body with sour-tasting rage; and before she knows it, she’s shouting at de Larroque’s retreating back, “Fight me or die a coward!”, before drawing her sword and running at her full tilt.

The Comtesse barely has time to draw her own sword before Fleur’s upon her, striking wildly at the dead centre of her heart. Fleur’s thrust is expertly parried, as is the next; while de Larroque looks as if she’s barely even trying, countering with a  thrust of her own that Fleur only barely manages to block, taking the force of it on the pommel of her sword and feeling the jolt go right up her arm.

Fleur knows she’s fast, and good with a blade – uncommonly so for her age and station – but she’s tiring quickly, her limbs slow and heavy, and her ears are ringing with the clang of metal on metal, and the echo of her own voice screaming Thérèse’s name.

She should have rested, she realises, too late, she should have eaten; her vision’s starting to swim and she can barely hold her sword any more, and de Larroque is _taunting_ her, with a block-dodge-strike that throws her off balance, hooking a foot round her ankle – and the next thing she knows, she’s on her back in the dirt, empty-handed, and as she reaches for her sword hilt, de Larroque kicks it just out of her reach, resting her own sword point at the base of Fleur’s throat.

“Enough,” de Larroque commands, her eyes like flint. “As I _said_ , you’re mistaken. Don’t make me kill you for it.”

Winded, Fleur gasps for air, her head spinning as every doubt she’s been pushing away in her single-mindedness rushes suddenly back in: the fact that she has no real proof – all she has is a piece of parchment with a shield on it, there could be all sorts of explanations, and why would a Musketeer want to kill a _girl;_ the fact that duelling’s _illegal_ and even if she won she’d still be hanged for it; what would happen to _Father_ without her?

For a moment, the shame is overwhelming; and as Ninon resheathes her sword and walks away without another glance at her, Fleur is mortified to feel hot tears pricking at her eyes.

She sits up slowly, reaching for her sword with shaking hands.

_What do I do now?_

Just as she’s determined to get out of the garrison and away before she breaks down, her attention’s drawn by the detachment of soldiers striding through the gate – city guards, she thinks, though the woman heading them is definitely a Musketeer, her blue cloak contrasting with the red of their uniforms. Though she’s clearly seen many years of service and her brown leathers are battered, she walks as if into her own domain; her hair piled up into her hat and her mouth set in a straight, grim line.

Though it’s none of her business, Fleur knows instinctively that something is wrong here; and despite everything, her curiosity is piqued.

“Ninon!” The woman’s voice rings out, low and commanding; and Fleur watches de Larroque walk stiffly over to the group, straightening her spine.

What comes next makes even Fleur gasp in shock.

“These women have come to arrest you.”

Moving as one, the two Musketeers who laughed at Fleur step forward to flank their comrade, their hands going immediately to their sword hilts; and Fleur gets to her feet, a grim smile stealing over her face.

_It seems justice will be served after all._

“I told them there’d be no trouble,” the woman continues, with a hard look at the other two Musketeers; and even from her position behind the group, Fleur can see de Larroque reach out to place a restraining hand on either of their arms.

“The charges?” she asks, in a voice devoid of all emotion.

“Conspiracy to assassinate the Queen and Prince.”

Fleur feels her mouth fall open; barely registers the exclamations of shock coming from the other two Musketeers.

“What?!” de Larroque replies, somewhere between bafflement and outrage; and Fleur inches carefully forward, desperate to get as close as she can to the scene before her without drawing attention to herself. “That’s ludicrous! Mother, I can assure you there’s been a very serious misunderstanding.”

“You’re to appear before the Queen immediately,” Mother replies – and Fleur freezes as the woman looks straight at her, though her attention moves away again just as quickly. “But I assure you, we will get to the bottom of this.”

Two of the guards step forward at that, as if to seize de Larroque’s arms; but they stop abruptly when Mother holds up a hand, her words too quiet for Fleur to hear.

De Larroque turns to the Musketeers beside her, who are no doubt just as astonished as Fleur feels, if not more. “Find out the truth,” she commands, before striding swiftly out of the garrison gate, the guards hurrying to catch her up.

Fleur is half way to the gate herself before she’s stopped by a shout.

“Hey! Stop!”

She turns to see the brunette walking over to her, her friend following close behind.

“Do you believe now that Ninon didn’t kill your sister?” she demands.

“I…” Fleur begins, trailing off as she realises she doesn’t know _what_ she believes.

“This _can’t_ be a coincidence,” the redhead insists – though she’s talking to the brunette more than she is to Fleur. “First an accusation of murder, then a conspiracy charge. And I’d bet good money they’re related.”

“And _I_ wouldn’t be surprised to find Milady de Winter’s at the heart of it.”

“Who?” Fleur asks, rapidly feeling as if she’s lost all grasp of the conversation.

“She’s the Queen’s first minister,” the redhead explains, “and she’s always had it in for the Musketeers. Just because we’re better soldiers than her Red Guards. This smacks of a setup.”

“And I’m not surprised it’s Ninon,” the brunette replies. “She’s a Comtesse too, remember – Milady is. I’ve always got the impression there was unfinished business there.” She turns her attention back to Fleur. “If you want justice for your sister, the best thing you can do is to help us find out what’s _really_ going on here. What did you say your name was again?”

“I didn’t. Fleur Baudin.”

“Constance Bonacieux,” the brunette replies, offering a gloved hand. Her grip is firm.

“My name’s Flea,” the redhead says, with a broad wink. “Just Flea.”

“ _Flea?_ ” Fleur repeats stupidly – knowing she’s being rude, but unable to help herself.

“Chose it myself,” Flea replies with pride. “Have you ever tried to kill a flea?”

“Good point.” Despite everything Fleur finds herself smiling, for the first time in days.

“You two!”

Fleur had entirely forgotten the woman Ninon called Mother was there; and Flea and Constance look over immediately at her address, suddenly attentive. “I’m going straight to the palace to appeal to Her Majesty, and I need you to find out what’s actually going on here.”

“Already on it,” Flea replies. “Is there anything you can tell us?”

“Only that plans for the assassination of the Queen and Prince were apparently found in Ninon’s lodgings,” Mother replies, her expression showing all too clearly how convinced she is by _that_. “That’s how Milady de Winter gained the authority to arrest her.”

Constance looks immediately sceptical. “How did they know to look in Ninon’s rooms in the first place?”

“That is the question I am asking myself, child. Hopefully Milady will be present at the Louvre and be able to shed some light on the situation, but I certainly wouldn’t rely on it.”

As Mother turns to leave, Flea wrinkles her nose in disgust. “Everything about this stinks.”

“That it does,” Constance agrees with a sigh. “Let’s at least eat something while we work out where to start.”

Fleur follows them to a long table, where the garrison cook brings them bowls of steaming beef stew, and crusty bread. She’s enormously grateful for the food, the first thing she’s eaten all day; and as her stomach slowly fills she starts to feel like the fog’s lifting in her mind and she can actually think again.

She’s feeling calmer, too, which surprises her – she hadn’t thought she’d be able to bear to sit and think without breaking down, but it seems that having a purpose is enough for now. She will help the Musketeers get to the bottom of this, and she will see that justice is done. Only then will she mourn Thérèse.

Constance and Flea have been quiet for some time now, twin expressions of disquiet on their faces as they methodically empty their bowls; and Fleur’s the one to break the silence, as something quite unrelated comes to mind.

“Why do you call her Mother?”

Flea grins slightly, mopping up the last bits of liquid with a handful of bread. “It’s short for Mother Superior. Legend has it she used to be a nun – before she decided she was more suited to soldiering.”

Fleur tries to imagine it. She’s not sure she can.

She looks over expectantly as Constance clears her throat. “I understand that this is difficult, but we have to ask – what made you think it was Ninon who killed your sister?”

Fleur pushes away the immediate pang she feels at the words, hands gripping the edge of the table as she tries to corral her thoughts into something coherent, to convey the events of last night without reliving them. “I found a note on her – body,” she replies haltingly. “It had the de Larroque crest on it. So I came to demand satisfaction.”

“Where did you find the body?”

“In our church – Saint-Nicolas-de-Champs, it’s at the other side of the city. She left a note for me at home, but I never found out why she went there. She was too young for it to be a boy – at least I hope so – and she wasn’t pious.”

“Perhaps she stumbled on something she shouldn’t have,” Constance replies sympathetically. “Do you still have the note?”

“Here.” Fleur pulls the scrap of parchment from the inside pocket of her doublet and passes it over to Constance, who unrolls it and studies it carefully, Flea leaning against her shoulder to get a better look. “That’s definitely her crest – I had to look it up. But I don’t know what any of the numbers mean.”

“It’s not an easy hand,” Constance replies, frowning at it. “Is that a six or a five?”

Flea shrugs. “Don’t ask me.”

“It could be a code of some sort,” Constance muses, mostly to herself, “in which case I’d say we’re out of luck unless we can find a cipher. Or maybe…” she bites her lip – “this could be a date and time. It would certainly fit the pattern of the numbers. In which case, it would be this Sunday at noon.” She looks up at Fleur, face animated. “If this note is linked to the plot against Her Majesty, we could just be holding the key.”

“But what about Ninon?” Fleur asks.

Flea raises an eyebrow. “If you were plotting to overthrow the Queen, would you be stupid enough to use your own stationery?” Fleur shakes her head, in concession of the point. “Besides, Ninon’s the last person who would be involved in something like this. Her duty as a Musketeer aside, she’s a former Comtesse – and no particular champion of the common woman.”

“Exactly,” Constance replies. “And one of us needs to take this to Mother.”

Flea nods. “But it doesn’t get Ninon off the hook.” She looks off into the distance for a moment; then sets her jaw, as if she’s come to a difficult decision. “Constance, you show the note to Mother when she returns. I’m going to go and see Adèle Bessett.”

“Are you sure?” Constance asks – her surprise clear. “I wouldn’t ask you to.”

“Yeah, I’m sure,” Flea replies, though she still doesn’t sound it. “For Ninon, I will. I don’t think we have another choice.”

“Adèle who?” Fleur asks – hating the way she’s having to ask constant questions, but the other two seem to speak in riddles around her.

“She’s a Red Guard,” Constance replies, with her eyes still carefully on Flea. “One of Milady de Winter’s women – but she’s a friend, sort of. She might be able to help us.”

“I hope so,” Fleur replies, though she’s speaking more to herself than to them. It seems to be the only lead they’ve got, and the truth is important to them all.

 

* * *

 

When Flea swaggers into the Boar’s Head an hour or so later, she’s swapped her hat and doublet for a burgundy headscarf, heavy gold earrings and an ill-fitting sleeveless tunic over her shirt and breeches, the sleeves of a plain, worn chemise clearly on display. She knows how to blend in, and that most Red Guards don’t look beyond the brassard in any case. No, she won’t be recognised by anyone unless she wants to be.

She almost doesn’t want Adèle to recognise her either – but she pushes the thought forcefully away. She’s here for Ninon’s sake, and that’s all.

A quick scan of the room tells her that Adèle’s not among any of the women drinking or playing cards at any of the low tables – half Red Guards, half civilians – so Flea orders the cheapest cup of wine on offer (which she knows from experience is only a few shades off vinegar) and stakes out a table in a shadowy corner, nursing her drink as she waits.

Her luck’s in today, it seems, as it isn’t much more than an hour before Adèle turns up – one of a group of Red Guards, all still in uniform.

She gives them all a few minutes to sit down and get a round of drinks in, before getting to her feet and sidling up to their table. “Can I interest any of you ladies in a game?” she drawls, in her best gutter Parisian, brandishing a deck of cards.

She may be speaking to the entire table, but it’s Adèle she’s looking at; and there’s a hint of the old spark there as Adèle slowly meets her eyes with a cold, guarded smile.

“Why not.”

She follows Flea back to her corner table and pulls up the opposite chair; and Flea sits herself down and shuffles to maintain appearances, dealing them twelve cards apiece before laying down the _talon_ 2. Trying not to think about all the times they used to do this together, every assignation arranged over a game of cards in certain taverns, never more than one of them in uniform – the sight of a Musketeer and a Red Guard openly breaking bread together would have drawn attention they certainly didn’t need.

“Three. What do you want?” Adèle asks in an undertone, exchanging three of her own cards with the ones in the centre of the table, one by one. “I thought we agreed you wouldn’t do this.”

“I wouldn’t if it wasn’t important,” Flea replies, fanning her hand out before her eyes – and though she’s not really taking it in, it’s good to have something else to focus on than Adèle’s familiar face, the way she isn’t quite looking at her either. “Ninon’s been arrested. Something about a plot. It smacks of your employer’s work.”

Adèle does look up at that; and Flea meets her gaze, powerless to resist. Adèle’s eyes are just as blue as she remembers, and her expression near-impenetrable, mouth hidden behind her cards as a man of the court might hide behind his fan.

Flea tries very hard indeed not to remember the way that same face looks in laughter, or in fondness, or in desire.

“Exchange,” Adèle prompts, when they have looked at each other a moment too long; and as Flea’s head is bent low over the _talon_ , she feels Adèle leaning in slightly to murmur, “She wanted a few women for something extra. Something unofficial. I didn’t ask what. I didn’t want to know.”

“Two. Thank you,” Flea replies, slotting her new cards one by one into her hand. “I mean it.”

“Diamonds, point of four,” Adèle says out loud, setting her cards down; and then, “I miss you, you know,” so quietly that for a moment, Flea isn’t sure she heard correctly.

“Good,” Flea replies, loudly enough to make sure it’s clear she’s talking about the cards. “And I you. But I can’t keep putting you in danger. Which it would.” And though she knows she shouldn’t, she finds herself saying it anyway: “I just wish you’d get out.”

“ _Quinte._ And go where? We can’t all be Musketeers,” Adèle points out; and she’s not bitter, at least – Flea doesn’t think she could bear it if Adèle was bitter. “I’ve got to eat, same as you.”

“How high?”

“To the jack.”

“Not good,” Flea replies – and this time she means it.

Adèle knows, because she always has; and she gives Flea a few moments before asking, “How are your boys?”

Flea sighs. “Don’t ask.”

“You’ve got too big a heart, you do,” Adèle says knowingly – and plays her first card, face up.

It’s the ace of hearts.

Flea sighs.

 _Of course it bloody is_.

 

* * *

 

When Flea gets back to her lodgings it’s to find Constance already waiting for her, with a bottle of wine and a sympathetic expression at the ready; and flopping into her chair by the fire, she briefly recounts everything Adèle told her.

“I didn’t really expect to get anything we could use,” she finishes with a sigh, “not against Milady de Winter.”

“We’d need something more than this to bring the likes of her down,” Constance agrees. “But it doesn’t mean we can’t save Ninon. And at least we know we’re on the right track.” She pushes a full glass across the table towards Flea. “Mother told me she’s bought us a few days to investigate. So we can afford to sleep on it.”

 _That means you haven’t got a clue what to do either_ , Flea thinks; but she manages to hold her tongue. She certainly doesn’t want to see the look on Constance’s face should she say it.

They drink in near-silence, both lost neither feeling up to conversation; and it’s not long before Constance gets up, muttering something about needing to get back to her husband, and leaving Flea with her thoughts.

She sleeps badly, awakening with a start just before dawn to the image of Adèle bleeding out in a snow-covered forest somewhere, Flea’s name on her lips – a bit heavy-handed even for _her_ subconscious, Flea argues, with as much bravado as she can muster, as if the idea hasn’t shaken her at all.

Adèle will be fine. She’s been fine ever since Flea’s known her, and they have played cards together scores of times. Adèle can handle herself, and it’s not like Flea hasn’t got enough to worry about already, between Ninon and her ‘boys’ – as Adèle’s apparently calling them now.

Never mind them right now, she decides as she pulls on her breeches, doing up the buttons one by one before reaching for her doublet. The mess that is her love life will quite happily wait until after they’ve figured out how to save Ninon from the firing squad.

Pausing only to splash a little water on her face, she walks as quickly as she can back to the garrison, arriving just as the sun rises fully. Constance is already there, always the first of them to rise; she’s spreading pâté on bread at their usual table, and Flea plonks herself down beside her, knocking their shoulders together in greeting. “Anything?”

“Not yet,” Constance replies, with just a little emphasis on the _yet_ , though Flea isn’t sure whether it’s borne out of optimism or frustration. “We’ll go and see Mother as soon as we’ve eaten.”

Flea will come to wonder, later, what exactly Mother had planned when she ordered the two of them to join her and the company in escorting Prince Louis to the Châtelet for his annual Good Friday pardoning of the prisoners; if she had a sense of what was coming, or a hope of it.

She certainly didn’t look surprised when the fight broke out, simply drawing her pistols and shielding the startled prince behind her as she gestured to them, _go_.

Flea doesn’t know what the hell is happening, but she doesn’t need telling twice; without another thought she grabs Constance by the elbow and drags her round the corner into the thick of the fighting, where her fellow Musketeers have joined the prison guards in their struggle against their prisoners. It won’t be a long fight, she can tell that immediately; most of the prisoners are armed with nothing more than their wits. The woman who jumps Flea from behind is quick, though, and strong; and as she battles to wrench her own _main gauche_ from the woman’s grip a flash of yellow makes her look up just in time to see two blonde women escaping through the main gate – no sign of any other guards, only Mother standing stock-still and silent with the terrified Prince behind her – and then the telltale sound of hooves.

“Hélène! Clerbeaux! See if you can get a shot!” Mother shouts out, and they race accordingly out through the gate – a good ten seconds too late, Flea thinks, _she saw them long before_ , and she almost wants to laugh in triumph for a moment, but settles for slitting her opponent’s throat instead.

Alice and Hélène return after a few moments, shaking their heads; and Mother takes the Prince by the arm, encouraging him towards the exit. “Never mind,” Flea hears her say, quite clearly over the noise of the dying battle, “just cover the gate, we don’t want to lose any more.”

She turns instinctively to look at Constance, who’s knocking out her own assailant with the pommel of her sword as the guards drag the prisoners who are still living back in the direction of the cells; and her expression says that she’s seen it all, and understands no more than Flea does, though neither of them dare to turn their questioning glances on Mother, not with the Prince standing at her side.

She can see the same questions in Constance’s eyes: what does Mother know, who is the other woman – and _what_ is Ninon playing at?

 

* * *

 

“So, Flea and Constance are trying to find out who’s really behind it,” Fleur finishes, tucking into another piece of bread, as she watches Monsieur Murchand – Aramis, she reminds herself – kneading dough with firm, practiced movements. She wonders if he made the bread she’s eating now.

He’s been better to her than she deserves: not saying a thing when she returned the day before with her tail between her legs, not knowing where else to go, and she was grateful beyond words when he just smiled brightly and said the bread was still good, and could he put some of it in front of her?

She’s not sure why she’s being fussed over by a man she barely knows, but if it keeps her thoughts at bay then she’s all for it – and the bread _is_ good, light and fluffy in her mouth, and generously buttered.

“How do you know Ninon de Larroque, anyway?”

“She and Madame Murchand attend the same salons,” Aramis replies, flipping the dough on its wooden board and scooping a fresh palmful of flour. “I’ve always liked her, probably because she flirts with me so brazenly. It makes me feel young again.”

Fleur’s sip of wine becomes a gulp, and she focuses on her plate. She has absolutely no idea what she’s supposed to say to that.

“Is your wife away at present?” she finally manages, after a few moments of awkward silence.

“She’s a furniture-maker. It keeps her very busy,” Aramis replies shortly, his expression darkening – and then he spits, “as do her _lovers_.”

Fleur doesn’t say anything, just fidgets with her hands in her lap as she watches him pounding away at the bread, movements suddenly forceful.

“It’s not the _lovers_ I mind,” he continues, though his tone is brittle and Fleur doesn’t know if he really believes it himself – “I just wish she’d be a little more discreet. The whole neighbourhood knows, for God’s sake, and it reflects badly on me to have everyone know I’m not enough for her. And I just get so _bored_ here, with these _bloody_ dogs!” He punctuates by aiming a kick at the one who’s trying to nip at Fleur’s ankles, even though it has no real chance through the thick leather of her boot. “I wish she’d let me go out to work at least – lifting and carrying, _anything_ – but apparently that’s beneath me.”

His distress is clear on his face; and Fleur wants to say something comforting, though she has no idea where to start. She’s never thought about what it must be like for a husband to have to stay at home all day – she’s not exactly planning on having one.

She looks around the kitchen, and imagines spending every day cooped up inside, for years on end. It gives her the shivers.

Before she can find the right words, though, Aramis sighs, briefly meeting her eye. “I’m sorry, how inappropriate of me. It’s just – you’re the first person I’ve been able to talk to in ages. We’ve been married nigh on ten years and there are still no children, and I just don’t look as good on her arm as I did when I was twenty.” His expression closes in on itself. “And now I’m babbling again.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Fleur begins, “I –”

“It’s fine, madame,” he replies quickly – too quickly, and Fleur curses herself inwardly for having led him down this path, and for not knowing how to help him. “I appreciate your listening, for what it’s worth. Everyone else in this neighbourhood’s a frightful gossip.”

Stuffing the last of her bread into her mouth, Fleur looks up again to see him looking out of the window, biting his lip, before meeting her gaze again.

“Would you stay here? As a lodger, of course,” he clarifies hastily, before Fleur can reply. “If you need somewhere, that is. You can keep the room you slept in last night. We need the money, though I shouldn’t admit it. All her _kept men_ are becoming quite the drain on the household finances.”

“Thank you,” Fleur replies cautiously. “It’s very kind of you to offer.”

“No, I should be thanking you,” Aramis replies – with a sudden, genuine smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes, and makes him look truly happy for the first time since Fleur’s met him.

He reaches over abruptly to press her hand, as if he just can’t help himself, sending up a small cloud of flour where they touch – and then pulls back immediately, turning away a little in embarrassment. “It’ll be good to have a bit of life in the house. And no, I don’t count these damn dogs.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Fleur replies, with a hesitant smile – and they’re beaming at each other a little stupidly when she hears the front door bang suddenly, and a familiar voice calling out:

“Fleur!”

“In here!” she calls back, just as Flea and Constance crowd through the doorway in a flurry of leather and clanging metal, as breathless as if they’ve run all the way from the garrison.

The way they stop dead, nodding politely at Aramis, is almost comical. “Monsieur Murchand,” Constance says, and Fleur blinks for a moment before realising that if he knows Ninon, he may well be acquainted with both of them as well.

“Turns out we’ve got a conspiracy to stop,” Flea says, looking all too pleased about it. “Fancy helping out?”

For a moment, Fleur just stares back at her with a grin blossoming on her face, everything else forgotten in the sudden rush of excitement. These women – these Musketeers – have already pumped her for all the information she has; but they’ve come back, and now they’re asking for her help.

“Please feel free to use my table,” Aramis replies smoothly, before Fleur can manage to formulate a reply that doesn’t make her sound like an excited child. “All I ask is that all swords are left by the door. I’ll pour some wine.”

“And pretend not to be listening in, I’m sure,” Flea replies cheekily, as she and Constance both unbuckle their sheathed swords from their baldrics.

Aramis presses a hand to his chest in mock offence, though there’s a playfulness in his expression that’s new to Fleur. “My lady, really. I would never do you the disservice of pretending that your appearance doesn’t bring a rare joy to a lonely man’s life.”

“Alright, keep your breeches on,” Flea smirks, pulling up a chair – and Fleur colours hotly at the implication, looking quickly to Constance, who’s unfastening a roll of parchment.

“We got this from Mother, who got it from Milady de Winter,” Constance begins, immediately businesslike, as she rolls the sheet out on the other side of the table, Fleur moving her empty plate hurriedly to the sideboard to make enough space. “She was no help at all to begin with – said the plan was evidence, and needed to stay in her possession – but she changed her tune pretty quickly after the ringleader broke out of the Châtelet this morning.”

“Taking Ninon with her,” Flea chips in.

“Ninon _escaped_ with her?!” Fleur exclaims darkly, feeling the anger swell anew in her breast. What is this, if not a sign of her guilt…?

“Fleur. Whatever Ninon’s doing, I trust her,” Constance replies, putting a hand on her arm. “We may not understand what’s happening just yet, but we’ll get to the bottom of this.” She shares a meaningful glance with Flea. “The ringleader’s name is Suzette Pinot, and she’s a known revolutionary. The Red Guards arrested eight of her women with her, but we believe there are more of them still out there – and they’ll be heavily-armed.”

“So where do we start?” Fleur asks, leaning over to study the closest page – and her blood runs cold for a moment as she realises it’s the plan of a church, both the building and the streets surrounding it.

_No. Surely not…_

“That’s Notre Dame,” Constance replies, and Fleur’s heart thuds heavily in her chest, the relief momentarily overwhelming. She doesn’t think she could bear to go back to her own church – not yet, at least. “And those numbers on the note you showed us correspond to the date and time of the Easter Mass. Which the Queen and Prince always attend.”

“Mother’s trying to persuade them not to go, but last we heard, the Queen wouldn’t hear of it,” Flea says, in a tone of voice that says she doesn’t think much of Her Majesty’s choices. “She’s going to strengthen their guard, but in the meantime we have to see if we can stop this before it starts.”

“Alright,” Fleur replies, feeling lost. She wouldn’t even know where to start with something like this. “Is there anything in this plan that we can use?”

“Not really,” Constance murmurs, tracing over the streets with one finger. “There are no markings on here to show their intended positions, they’ve been too careful for that.”

“So we have to get to them before they take up those positions,” Flea concludes. “They’re wanted criminals, they must be hiding out somewhere. We need to find out where, and get to them there.”

“Alright, but where the hell do we start?” Constance asks; and Fleur realises that Constance has reached for Thérèse’s note again, her finger absent-mindedly tracing the wings of the wren printed on the paper.

Flea smiles, leaning over to point meaningfully at the bird in its vine-wreathed crest. “As it happens, I might just have an idea.”

 

* * *

 

As the three of them stop and look up at the sign above their heads, creaking and swaying in the wind, Constance is the first to find her voice. “Are you serious?”

Though the paint’s chipped almost beyond recognition, Fleur can just about make out the words ‘The Wren’ where they’ve been picked out against the weather-beaten wood, in heavily-curling letters, as if the painter had a taste for the theatrical.

She decides she rather agrees with Constance.

“And why not?” Flea smiles easily at them, appearing entirely unaffected by their scepticism. “Come and have a drink and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Fleur nervously adjusts her headscarf as she follows her through the front door, trying to make sure her distinctive blonde curls are fully covered. She’s glad, at least, that when Flea ran a critical eye over her beaten-up leathers, she declared they’d ‘do alright’.

She certainly wouldn’t want anything drawing attention to her in here – not like Flea, who’s woven beads into her distinctive red hair and is wearing it loose, her fingers glittering with cheap gold rings. Either she’s just a very good actress or she’s somehow of this place, despite being a member of the Queen’s elite guard; Fleur senses that she knows how to hold court in a grimy tavern just as naturally as standing before Her Majesty herself.

“Eyes on Flea’s back,” Constance leans forward to mutter in Fleur’s ear. “Walk straight, don’t look at anyone. And try not to look scared.”

 _Easier said than done_ , Fleur thinks resolutely ignoring the merriment all around; some of the women laughing uproariously, others muttering together in low voices, or half-slumped over mugs of grog, their gazes elsewhere. There are men here, too, which takes her by surprise; old men with unkempt beards, their women nowhere in sight, if they even have them. Low enough to have no reputation to protect, she supposes, and something about the sight makes her even more uneasy.

She doesn’t notice the girl at all until Flea sticks out a sudden hand, grabbing her by the collar where she darts between two tables, no taller than the tables herself.

She leans over, presses a copper piece in her hand as she says something in her ear; and Fleur sees her eyes go round and wide for a moment, before nodding hurriedly and pushing past them all, rushing in the direction of the exit.

Flea doesn’t watch her go, just keeps pushing through the throng until she reaches an empty table, drumming upon it possessively with the flat of her hand. “Shall we, ladies?”

“Are you going to tell us what we’re doing here, then?” Constance asks as they take their seats, Flea calling for a bottle. Of the good stuff, Fleur notes –which in a place like this hopefully means it will at least be drinkable.

“I didn’t just choose this place for the name,” Flea replies, as a bottle and three earthenware cups are plonked unceremoniously down between them, the serving boy turning away without a second look, “though I’ll own it’s a neat coincidence.”

She pours a generous glass, knocking back half of it in one gulp. “Ah, that’s the stuff.”

Fleur lets her fill her own glass before taking a careful sip, trying and mostly failing not to grimace. It’s probably the worst thing she’s ever drunk.

“I’ve sent a message to my boys,” Flea explains, leaning in across the table. “They’re ghosts, you see. If these women are anywhere to be found, they’ll find them.”

Fleur blinks. “They’re what?”

“When you want to find those who don’t want to be found,” Flea continues, “you need to look in certain places. The Court of Miracles. The docks. The Jewish quarter, perhaps. And these are all places we can’t pass unnoticed. But my boys are another story: they can go where we can’t. Unseen, or as good as. Hence the name.”

“And they’re going to find them for us?” Fleur replies, trying to keep the excitement out of her voice.

From the amused look Flea gives her, she hasn’t entirely succeeded. “That’s it, exactly. But you can’t rush these things, so have a drink while we’re waiting – and try not to look like you’re gargling vinegar. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of old Bertha.”

Flea inclines her head in the direction of the mistress of the house, a woman with a weather-beaten face and a hard look who’s surveying the room like she’s just waiting for someone to get on the wrong side of her; and Fleur gulps, and takes another hasty drink, deciding it’s not nearly so bad the second time around.

The girl’s back before she’s finished her glass, followed by two men who must be Flea’s ‘boys’ – and from the way Flea talked about them Fleur had expected men who’d at least be happy to see her, but instead they’re a near-giant who must do very well for himself as a lifter, the melancholy look in his eyes somehow at odds with his size and apparent strength; and a slighter, sharp-featured man who gives everyone at the table a hostile once-over as he takes his seat, as if he’s expecting trouble.  

Fleur looks instinctively to Flea, who’s glancing back and forth between them, more unsettled than Fleur’s ever seen her. Constance appears to be studiously pretending she hasn’t noticed the atmosphere turning distinctly awkward, which of course gives exactly the opposite impression.

“Thank you both for joining us,” Flea begins, in an unexpectedly businesslike fashion, as she signals for another two glasses. “I was wondering if you boys could help me find some shadows.”

“Who’s this, first?” the slighter man replies, giving Fleur a hard look. She stares defiantly back.

“This is Fleur,” Flea replies, undaunted. “She’s with us. Fleur, meet Charon, Porthos.”

Fleur nods at them both in turn, unsure if she’s expected to say anything. She’s very much getting the sense that she shouldn’t risk disturbing whatever it is that’s going on under the surface here.

“Where are we talking?” Porthos asks, pouring himself a drink unasked.

“Docks, most likely,” Flea replies, “though we think they’re just lying low for now, shouldn’t be shifting anything. Two blondes, one of them’s Ninon. You remember. Maybe ten, twelve others? We don’t know. They would have assembled recently. We suspect they’re heavily armed.”

“It’s not a lot,” Charon objects immediately.

“It’s all I’ve got,” Flea counters. “Just find us anyone new and we’ll do the rest. Usual deal, plus anything they leave behind is yours.”

Porthos and Charon give each other a long look, but to Fleur’s eyes it has the look of play-acting about it – as if they don’t want to be seen to agree too easily, but have no intention of ever refusing. Coin is coin, after all; and if they live anything like most of the people in this part of the city seem to then she can’t imagine they can afford to pass on any of it.

They give each other a slight nod, before downing their drinks as one. “We’ll see you later, then,” Charon replies decisively, and they both get to their feet and head for the door. Fleur twists around to watch them go, and marvels at the way none of the women give them a second glance. She’s starting to understand why Flea calls them ghosts.

She realises that Flea is watching them too, with a strange, wistful smile on her face that seems to Fleur completely at odds with everything that’s gone before, both the cheerful way she talked about the two of them and her abruptness of manner in their presence. “And now we wait,” she says, turning back to the table and pulling a battered pack of cards from the inside of her tunic. “Anyone for a game in the meantime?”

“Don’t play her for money,” Constance warns Fleur as she refills their glasses, “not if you want to eat for the next month. She’s a positive shark.”

“If I had any, I’d be worried,” Fleur replies good-naturedly, glad that the mood has smoothed over.

They’re on their second bottle and their third game of _prime_ 3 before Porthos and Charon return, as unassumingly as they left.

“We’ve got something for you,” Charon announces without preamble as he resumes his seat, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. “Docks, east side, moved in about a week ago. We saw eight of them, including two blondes. One of them the posh type. Might have been her, might not have been, we couldn’t get close enough to tell.”

“Sounds to me like it all fits. Excellent work, boys,” Flea replies, smiling for the first time in their presence. “Can you take us there?”

The walk to the docks is a long one, and Fleur suspects they’re taking something of a roundabout route, though she doesn’t dare ask; and it could just be what this part of Paris is like, all dank, stinking alleyways and shadowed doorways, the sense of a threat lurking in every shadow. She’s never been anywhere like it in her life, and is grateful for Constance’s reassuring hand at her elbow, and how both the boys leading the way and Flea at her back move with a native ease.

They all stop abruptly at the edge of a long, open wharf, the surroundings opening out to show a long line of cheap, shabby-looking buildings before them, though whether they’re one building or many Fleur can’t tell; and on the other side, a low jetty leading out into the river.

While she can see people carrying crates and hear the chatter of low voices at the other end of the wharf, some hundred yards on, the area near their hiding place is almost deserted – but for one solitary figure leaning against a warehouse door, sword glinting in the moonlight. Even to Fleur’s untrained eye, her presence there is distinctly suspicious.

“I’m surprised they’ve got a visible guard up,” Constance says in an undertone, mimicking Fleur’s own thoughts. “It’d make them stick out like a sore thumb, if anyone was here to see it.”

“No, you want that out here,” Flea whispers back, “if you don’t want to get turned over before your dust has even settled. While nobody wants to know exactly what you’re up to, if you’ve got valuable goods in there then you want to show they’re at least being guarded.”

“So do we go in the back?” Fleur asks.

“I’m afraid that’s not gonna work,” one of the boys replies – Porthos, she remembers after a moment. “I’ve done a few jobs in these warehouses, and they’re a maze. All interconnected. Chance is high that you’ll get lost in there and either give yourself away, or end up running into someone else who doesn’t want the attention either. Best way in is through the front, if you can work out how to get in quietly, and catch what you can before they all scarper.”

“So we’ll need a quiet way past that guard,” Constance concludes.

“Exactly. And as it happens, I know just the thing,” Flea replies with a smirk, and Fleur wonders what exactly she’s got up her sleeve. “But I’ll need to go and get somebody to help us with it. Fleur, Constance, sit tight and keep an eye on that door. Porthos, Charon – thank you.”

Flea’s expression becomes uncomfortably sincere for a moment; and Fleur can’t help noticing how Porthos looks awkwardly away, unable to hold her gaze, while Charon actually glares.

Flea seems to recover herself after a moment, and walks off without a backward glance, Porthos and Charon eventually following; and once they’re left alone together, Fleur raises an eyebrow at Constance. “Is it me, or did that just get _really_ weird?”

The look she gets in return is a strange mix of exasperated and pitying – though it doesn’t seem directed at her. “Don’t ask,” Constance replies shortly, “it’s really not worth it. And God only knows what she’s got up her sleeve. Hopefully she won’t be too long, at least.”

Constance was unfairly optimistic, Fleur decides; her toes going numb and her legs are aching by the time they finally hear two sets of footsteps approaching. Though her hand goes immediately to her sword hilt, it’s only Flea – closely followed by Aramis, who’s wearing a pain of sinfully tight breeches and a daringly low-cut shirt that has Fleur looking quickly away to hide her shock.

 _It’s positively indecent,_ she thinks, turning to Constance and expecting a measure of sympathy; and she’s shocked all over again to see that Constance’s eyes have lit up, and she’s smiling in lazy appreciation.

When she’s finally recovered enough to look back at Aramis, his smile is significantly more self-satisfied than it should be; and Flea actually winks at her.

Though his best years are easily past, Fleur is forced to concede that Aramis is a very attractive man – even though he clearly knows it. In fact, he looks so at home in this frankly shocking getup that Fleur briefly wonders how exactly it was he met Madame Murchand in the first place.

“Flea has kindly informed me that you ladies are in need of a distraction,” Aramis murmurs as he crouches down next to them, with a definite smirk this time.

Constance chuckles, low in her throat. Fleur glares at her.

“It must be getting late,” Flea says, peering around the corner in the direction of the warehouse. “Have they changed the guard?”

“No,” Fleur replies, “there’s been no movement.”

“Then I’m banking on the fact that madame over there is tired, and will appreciate the sight of a nice gentleman wandering past.”

“And was Monsieur Aramis kind enough to volunteer his services?” Constance asks, with a smile that’s more predatory than Fleur would have expected from her.

She half-expects Aramis to be put off by both their attentions; but he just smiles even wider, tipping an imaginary hat. “Anything for Ninon, and for my Queen,” he replies flippantly.

“Alright,” Flea replies seriously, “let’s do this. Aramis, you approach from here. She’s your target, don’t be afraid to be obvious. Fleur will cover your back as best she can. I’ll take Constance, we’ll double back behind and approach from the other side, and we’ll knock her out before she gets too friendly. Everybody ready?”

“Ready,” the three of them reply as one.

“Right. Aramis, count to two hundred and then go.”

As Flea and Constance blend back into the shadows of the alleyway, Fleur keeps her eyes on the guard at the warehouse door and begins to count under her breath, not faltering when Aramis’ voice joins hers.

Just as he’s about to step out into the light, she stops him with a hand to his arm. “We just need to distract her,” she insists, though she’s not sure if it’s him she’s trying to reassure, or herself. “I’ll be right behind you.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he replies easily – looking a little amused, though also as if he’s touched by her concern. “I’ve learned a few things in my time, how to fend off overly-friendly women included.”

He looks confident enough to mostly set her mind at ease; but though he’s easily fifteen years her senior, Fleur still feels responsible for him, and the worry in her breast doesn’t ease up much at all when he gives her a slight bow – and a broad wink – before stepping out of the shadows into the open.

Covering Aramis’ approach is tricky work; there’s not much shelter at all, and Fleur finds herself circling round on the far side, farther from the warehouse than she’d like, using stacks of half-rotten packing crates and occasionally the jetty itself as cover. Her heart is in her mouth as he strolls up to the guard at the warehouse door, saying something in a low, suggestive tone, and she finds herself praying that Flea and Constance are in position as they promised.

She grits her teeth as she sees the woman’s arm come round Aramis’ waist, groping appreciatively at his near skin-tight breeches; and is grimly pleased when Constance’s sword comes down swift and hard on the back of the woman’s head just a few moments later, and she slumps immediately in Aramis’ arms.

Fleur rushes up immediately from her hiding-place to join them; and as Flea and Constance carefully lift the door’s heavy bolt as quietly as possible, she hisses at Aramis, “Stay out of sight and wait for us by the water.”

Before she can think too closely about what she’s doing, she presses her spare pistol – Thérèse’s pistol – into Aramis’ hand.

“Take this,” she murmurs, “it’s loaded. Just in case.”

“Thank you, madame,” he replies, looking at her in unguarded shock for just a moment before his customary, charming smile returns; but at that moment Flea and Constance heave the door open just enough for them all to slip through – with only the barest of creaks, though it sounds loud in the near-silence of the night, and Fleur hopes it won’t have been heard inside.

She’s already _en garde_ as she manoeuvres around the gap in the door; but finds to her relief that the three of them are hidden from view of the main room by a stack of crates, wormwood-riddled and discoloured with age, which she guesses would collapse if anyone tried to move them. Though she’s gathered that the warehouse frequently changes hands, there’s no doubt that these crates are a permanent fixture, intended to stop any curious passers-by getting a view inside.

There’s candlelight coming from the centre of the room, and Fleur hears two or three voices at once, talking and laughter, carefully muted. All eight of the women are together, she’d wager.

Constance puts a hand against her back. “Remember, shoot to kill.”

“Except for Ninon, of course,” Flea quips, though just as quietly. “Make your first shot count. On three, two, one –”

Moving as one, they lean out from behind the tower of boxes, three shots ringing out simultaneously.

Fleur’s aim is true, and the woman closest to her falls, ball lodged squarely in her back – to reveal another woman leaping to her feet directly behind her, pistol already pointed straight at Fleur. She throws herself instinctively to the ground behind a low crate just as the ball whizzes past the space where her chest was a moment earlier, and she hears a splintering sound where it clips the edge of one of the crates.

She has to think fast. She gave her other pistol to Aramis, and it’s a small room, there’s not time to reload before they’ll be on her; and when she hears the clash of steel on steel she’s decided – and gets to her feet, drawing her sword and leaping over the crate in front of her, managing to get a good kick to her opponent’s chest as she goes.

She hears two more shots ring out on the other side of the room as she lands, though she trusts that Flea and Constance can handle themselves; hops one-two to regain her footing and slits the woman’s throat, drawing her _main gauche_ and swinging towards the other woman coming up on her left side, though she only catches the woman’s sword against her guard.

In the breath she catches as her new opponent rallies, Fleur flicks her eyes around the room – no visible exits, as Porthos had feared, though there’s probably one hidden somewhere out of easy view, most likely behind the high stack of crates on the east wall.

Her blow is parried, her opponent lunging deeply at her offside and Fleur taking the force of it on her sword guard, forcing the woman back. She glances over the woman’s shoulder and sees another two still standing, fighting Flea and Constance – and no sign of either Ninon or Suzette Pinot.

She looks a moment too long, and it nearly costs her – she’s slow to block the woman’s next move, a deep, low thrust at her side, and they circle each other for a moment, trading blows as Fleur works to recover herself. She steadily presses her advantage, forcing her opponent back; and when she loses her footing, Fleur doesn’t hesitate for a moment before striking upwards, a clean blow through the heart.

She would have expected to feel something, in the moment of her first kill with a blade; but all she finds herself thinking is that she is a soldier, and she and her enemy have just chosen different sides.

As the woman falls, she looks around for Flea and Constance – but there’s no living person in sight, just a group of candles lighting the centre of the room, and bodies on the floor; and she’s about to move towards where she thinks the other exit might be when she sees a movement out of the corner of her eye, and turning, hears a click that strikes cold fear in her heart.

In the dim light she can’t see clearly if it’s the door guard who’s pointing a gun straight at her chest, or someone else entirely; but all she can think is _we should have killed her_ as she lets her sword fall to the floor with a clatter and raises her hands in surrender, knowing that to attempt anything else would surely seal her fate.

When she hears the shot, it takes her a moment to understand why she doesn’t feel any pain; and as the woman falls to the ground in front of her it’s to reveal a shocked-looking Aramis stepping forward out of the shadows, holding Thérèse’s smoking gun.

“I saw her come to and I followed her,” he says. “I saw you and I – I didn’t think, I just…”

“Thank you,” Fleur finds herself saying. “I’m glad you didn’t.”

She reaches out to take the pistol from his grasp; and a shaky smile’s just coming to his face when Fleur hears her own name, being yelled from the direction of the stack of crates.

“In here!” she shouts back, as Flea and Constance come into view, marching a blonde woman in front of them that Fleur supposes must be Suzette Pinot – and following behind is Ninon, dirtier and wearier than Fleur would have ever expected to see her. Her arms are full of parchment.

“Fleur,” she nods as they approach; and then, “Monsieur Murchand,” with the ghost of a sharp smile. “Why am I not surprised to find you in the thick of the action?”

“These ladies were kind enough to request my assistance, madame,” Aramis replies smoothly; though as Fleur glances over at him, she can see the genuine joy beneath the courtesy. “I’m glad to see you’re uninjured.”

“So am I,” Ninon replies tiredly. “Fortunately, Madame Pinot here has agreed to testify to never having met me before I was thrown in the Châtelet, in exchange for escaping the rope herself. And these papers are all the evidence we need of the conspiracy – arms purchases, plans of Notre Dame, you name it. The only thing I can’t work out is where this one fits in. Saint-Nicolas-de-Champs.”

“That’s my church,” Fleur replies, her mouth suddenly dry.

“They must have used it as a base,” Constance says, giving Suzette a hard look; and after a moment the woman nods shortly, though her lips remain tightly closed. “These plans put them there, at any rate.”

“That might explain the key I found,” Ninon picks up, “it looks like it could be for the sacristy. We can investigate tomorrow – but for now, we need to take Pinot back to the Châtelet.”

Flea and Constance take that as their cue to march Suzette out of the warehouse between them, with Fleur, Ninon and Aramis following behind.

As they emerge into the cool night air, Ninon leans over to Fleur. “You can be certain that whoever killed your sister either died here tonight,” she says in an undertone, “or if it was her, will not escape justice.”

“It doesn’t feel like much,” Fleur replies thickly; and the look Ninon gives her is surprisingly bleak.

“Justice never does.”

Fleur almost wants to ask, even though she knows it’s hardly her place; but Ninon looks ahead once more, clearly signalling that the subject is closed as she rearranges the parchments in her arms, and instead, Fleur turns to Aramis.

“I’ll take you home,” she offers; and though something wistful enters his expression at that, he nods in acquiescence.

“Meet us at The Fox!” Flea calls after her as Fleur offers Aramis her arm, with just a little more of a flourish than is strictly necessary – and that does make him smile again, at least.

 

* * *

 

Fleur trips on something as she steps over the threshold of the tavern after the other three, several hours later, and just about manages not to stumble. It takes a few seconds for the cold night air to hit her, and she holds back a giggle. She’s drunk more than normal, and she doesn’t want any of the Musketeers with her – and isn’t that a thought? – thinking her a child who can’t hold her drink. Even though the part about the drink is truer than she’d like.

The stars are out tonight, the moon nearly full, and Fleur’s lost in contemplation of the sight before them for a few moments when a voice cuts through her thoughts.

“What are you looking at?”

She turns in surprise, thinking Constance is speaking to her for a moment – until she realises that Flea and Constance both are following the line of Ninon’s gaze, where she’s watching a man leaning against the tavern wall, his face half-cloaked in shadow.

Fleur can’t read his expression, but the slump of his posture tells her instinctively: _he looks miserable_. Though as she looks back at Ninon, she can tell from the sudden gleam in her eye that that’s not what’s drawn her attention.

“ _Really?_ ” Constance asks sharply – managing to sound exactly like Fleur’s mother had every time Fleur did something she disapproved of.

Ninon shrugs gracefully. “There’s a melancholy aspect to his looks that I find intriguing,” she drawls appreciatively; and Fleur’s left thinking of a cat with a mouse. “Though it might only be mental vacancy.”

Fleur giggles – but stops abruptly when she realises to her surprise that she’s the only one who is, and that Constance and Flea look deadly serious.

“Be _careful_ ,” Flea hisses. “You don’t know who he is, or who he might work for. There’s already been one plot against your life this week.”

“Please,” Ninon scoffs, “I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. What enemies could I possibly have?”

Constance raises an eyebrow. “A wronged wife, perhaps? Paris must be full of women you’ve cuckolded.”

As Ninon opens her mouth to argue back, Fleur notices Flea’s eye drawn by a movement to their left, as a tall, dark figure disappears around a corner – Fleur didn’t get a clear look, but she could have sworn it’s one of Flea’s ‘boys’ from earlier, and definitely a man.

The way Flea abruptly announces, “Must go, I’ll see you ladies tomorrow,” before all but running off after the figure only strengthens Fleur’s conviction.

“What’s got into her?” Ninon asks, her attention successfully diverted.

“No idea,” Constance replies with a shrug. “Well, I’d better leave you two to it as well, and get home to the husband.”

As Constance walks away out of earshot, Fleur turns to Ninon in shock. “She’s _married?_ ”

She can’t imagine why a soldier would marry. Surely half the point of soldiering is that one’s not expected to choose that life.

“I wouldn’t ask, if I were you,” Ninon replies, in a tone that makes Fleur think Ninon rather agrees with her.  

Without warning, she clasps Fleur by the arm. “I haven’t thanked you yet. For what you did for me.” The corner of her mouth tilts. “The part where you helped Flea and Constance get to the bottom of this, anyway, not the part where you challenged me.”

Fleur smiles awkwardly, deciding that Ninon really is sincere, despite her apparent tendency to turn everything halfway serious into a joke. “I just wanted to find Thérèse’s true killer,” she replies. “And I’m… glad it wasn’t you.”

She isn’t sure if she expects another sharp response, but Ninon just smiles. “So, what’s next for Fleur Baudin?”

Fleur sighs. “I have no idea. I – need to bury my sister, first.” It feels wrong, to say those words; but fortunately the alcohol has dulled the pain, too, and the idea that Thérèse is truly gone just feels unreal. “Then look for a regiment that will take me, I suppose.”

“You should take a few days, but when you’re ready,” Ninon replies, “how would you like to report to the garrison? It’s up to Mother, of course, not to me; but I believe I can convince her you’ve got the makings of a fine Musketeer.”

Fleur knows she’s beaming, and this time she doesn’t try and stop herself. She’d dreamed that she might try for the Queen’s guards one day, but to have Ninon herself – beautiful, _brilliant_ Ninon – believe in her?

She wants to say something grown-up, something worthy of this honour; but all that comes out is: “You really mean that?”

Ninon laughs. “Well, you’ve still got to prove yourself. But somehow, I think you might just manage that.”

 

* * *

 

Flea had expected she’d have to chase him down, but she’s barely turned the corner when she finds Porthos waiting for her, leaning against the wall with his shoulders slumping. He knew she’d seen him, she realises; he knew she wouldn’t be able to help but follow, and it shouldn’t make her angry but it does, every time.

“Porthos!” she hisses. “Does Charon know you’re here?”

The wounded expression on his face is almost enough to make her regret it, but she stands firm, presses her lips into a thin line. They agreed that they wouldn’t do this, and Porthos knows that perfectly well; that it would be best for everybody if she saw neither of them alone. If she let them live their lives, and got on with living her own.

“I’m sorry,” Porthos replies; and Flea’s heart clenches in her chest as she realises Porthos looks _beaten_ , in a way she’s never seen from him before. _He always had so much fight,_ she thinks, even when the world gave him nothing in return. “I just – had to tell you. I’m going to sea.”

“To sea,” Flea repeats, her pulse thumping suddenly in her ears. For a few moments she can’t make any sense of it.

“I can. I _will_ ,” Porthos replies defiantly – and she realises he’s misread her expression as disbelief. “There are ships that’ll take me. Less conservative ones, who want men for the grunt work. It’s better than staying here.”

“How can you say that?”

Flea knows she should probably be happy for him, but in truth she’s scared. Scared of the idea of Porthos working his fingers to the bone, alone on a ship with nothing but hostile women, cut off from the world. Without his people around him.

“Because it’s true,” he insists. “I can be more than this, I know it. More than living hand to mouth and hustling down by the docks. I can be _more_ than just a lifter. I just need a chance.”

“You could come with me,” Flea argues, before she can stop herself – it’s selfish and it’s awful, but all she can think is that she can’t bear to lose Porthos to the sea.

“And do what?” he laughs, though there’s no humour in it. “Live off you, be your kept man? What am I supposed to do all day then?”

Flea sighs. It wasn’t a proposal, and Porthos knows that as well as she does. That she wouldn’t be willing to take that step for him, even if she was able to.

“You belong out here,” he waves his arm, indicating the street before them, where Flea can still see women passing by despite the hour. “We all know that. Just as well as we know there ain’t no place outside of the shadows for someone who looks like me.”

Flea flinches. “I wish you wouldn’t say that.”

“Pretending it’s not there isn’t going to make it go away.”

“And what about Charon?”

“I’m going to try and persuade Charon to come with me. He wants out of the Court too, this might be our best chance.”

Flea feels a rush of hot shame in her breast – she’d thought herself so considerate, but it’s Porthos who’s been the one thinking of Charon the entire time. Not making half-baked proposals he never intended to follow through on, that would lift him out of the Court to leave Charon in the dust.

Porthos wouldn’t leave Charon behind unless Charon wanted him to, Flea knows that. And she owes him just as much as she does Porthos.

“I thought you selfish,” she makes herself say, though the words hurt almost physically, “when I’m the one who’s been selfish.”

“Well,” Porthos replies – and the sudden gentleness in his voice draws her attention as surely as he always has, “I must confess I’m feeling a little selfish tonight.”

His hand moves to her jaw in a wordless question; and she pulls him down to her and kisses him as if her life depended on it.

 

* * *

 

The walk home is long, and as she walks Constance feels the adrenaline of the evening draining away, until she feels utterly spent. Between Madame Water off a Duck’s Back and Madame Too Much Heart and Not Nearly Enough Head – not to mention Fleur barrelling her way into their lives with the force of her anger and her grief – she’s starting to wonder if it’s only through sheer dumb luck that any of them have made it this far.

 _We can’t all afford to be so gallant and reckless,_ she can’t help thinking as she walks up to her front door, clamping her jaw firmly shut. _Flea may have come from nothing, but she has nothing to tie her down – and whatever happened to Ninon that she won’t talk about, she certainly seems to have burnt all her bridges._

Neither of them were only daughters, groomed for the family business and always expected to put their familial duty before their dreams. Neither of them had to marry someone they didn’t love because they needed a partner, the only way she could imagine doing what she was born to do while honouring her mother’s legacy.

She pulls herself up short as she fumbles with the latch. _No use being bitter, Constance_ , she tells herself sharply. She wouldn’t wish her situation on either of them; and she’s never kidded herself that her sisters don’t have their own peculiar burdens to bear.

Light floods out as she opens the front door, and she opens her mouth to tell Jacques she’s surprised he’s up so late when she realises that the man doing the washing up at the basin under the window is not her husband at all, but a stranger to her.

“Who are you?” she asks – too taken aback to be polite, her hand already on her sword hilt.

She could swear the stranger actually jumps.

“My name’s d’Artagnan, madame,” he replies, turning hurriedly and giving her an awkward little bow almost simultaneously, so all she gets is an impression of tawny, southern skin and dark hair reaching to his collar. _Country boy, then._ “I’m your new assistant. With your permission, I am to lodge here. Your husband said it would be alright.” He’s starting to babble, as if he’s scared of being turned away.

Of course. Given recent events, it had completely slipped her mind that the boy would be arriving. 

“You’re really Jacques’ assistant,” she replies distractedly, already unbuckling her sword belt. “I leave the business to him as much as possible. Is he already in bed?”

“Yes, he is, madame. Could I get you anything? A drink, perhaps?”

“Please,” Constance replies, dropping into a chair and resting her elbows on the table, resisting the temptation just to slump forward and let her hands take the weight of her head.

As a glass of wine’s placed discreetly at her elbow, she looks up to thank the boy – really looks at him, for the first time, and the words stick in her throat as she realises he’s _beautiful_. Silky-looking hair that she just itches to run her fingers through, lively brown eyes offset by a shy smile that just screams aiming to please.

She’s just thinking of all the ways he could no doubt please her when she remembers her husband upstairs. Her husband, who she has a duty to.

Whom she may feel no great passion for, but who was both the cleverest man and the best seamster she knew. Who may have had neither looks, youth nor money, but who takes more upon himself than she ever could have asked for from a man, leaving her free to just be a Musketeer.

 _Oh shit,_ she thinks vaguely, as she watches the boy gazing back at her as if he’s hers to command, his hand still resting on the base of the glass – until he realises what he’s doing and turns quickly, awkwardly away, and is she imagining it or is there a blush rising on his cheeks?

This is going to be nothing if not trying.

 

* * *

 

When Fleur gets back to Madame Murchand’s, she certainly isn’t expecting to find Aramis still awake, a half-drunk glass of wine at his elbow and a chemise on his lap, its neckline half-ringed with intricate flowering vines.

He smiles up at her awkwardly; embarrassed, she realises – though why, she can’t imagine. It’s hardly like she’s never seen a man embroider.

“Couldn’t sleep.” He gestures down at the fabric; the candlelight glinting off the embroidery needle still in his hand. “This is the only thing that helps,” he explains, self-effacingly – and Fleur realises belatedly that all the heavily-embroidered things she’s seen in the house, from the diamond patterns edging the tablecloth to the leaves and insects on the edge of her pillow to the samples hanging in every room of the house, must not just be madame’s taste as she’d assumed, but Aramis’ own work.

And yet he wants for employment. She can hardly believe it.

“It’s beautiful,” Fleur says honestly, and almost asks why he isn’t a seamster – but fortunately she remembers his wife just in time, and abruptly pours herself a drink to cover her awkwardness, and the sudden flush of sympathy in her breast that she doesn’t quite know what to do with.

She just wishes she could do something to help him, but she wouldn’t even know where to start.

“Thank you for your help today,” she says instead, as she sits down at the table opposite him. “We couldn’t have saved Ninon without you.”

“My lady, please. I should be thanking you,” he replies warmly, laying his needle to one side. “It isn’t exactly a hardship, to be drawn into the seductive world of female intrigues for an evening.”

While his words are of the politely flirtatious sort that are no doubt expected from him in society, the sudden light in his eyes is the same one she saw from him down by the docks, that Fleur recognises as the light of adventure; and she knows, with a conviction that surprises her, that she wants him to always be that happy.

The next words he says are so quiet they’re barely a whisper; and Fleur finds herself thinking of one not wishing to disturb a slumber, or a fragile dream.

“I can’t stop thinking about firing that pistol. I’ve never felt such power.”

He hesitates visibly; and Fleur can’t help biting her lip as she holds her breath and waits, as if he’s a timid horse, she thinks, and she’s wary of spooking him.

“Would – would you teach me?”

Fleur stares at him for a moment – and then breaks into a grin.

That, she can definitely do.

 

* * *

 

As she’s left alone in the middle of the street, Ninon catches the man’s eye for the second time tonight – and when he boldly holds her gaze, she saunters over to him, hands in her pockets.

She always relishes the thrill of the chase, even when there doesn’t seem to be all that much chasing to be done.

“Looking for company?” she asks, dropping her head a little and looking up through her eyelashes, with her best seductive stare.

His hesitation is completely at odds with the eye contact of a few moments before; not used to getting straight to the point, then, but he hardly seems the type to play the coquettish games of society either, and she’s certainly never seen him at any salon, or even a pleasure-house, she thinks as he visibly recovers himself. “Yes – I am, actually.”

 _A fish out of water_ , Ninon thinks. Perhaps he really hasn’t done this before. He’s definitely not a professional, that much is certain. He seems wrong-footed by her attentions, yet not unwelcoming of them; and he sounds unusually well-spoken to be loitering in this part of town, at this time of night.

All in all, the whole mixture is rather enticing.

The smile she gives him is not unlike that of a predator who has successfully cornered its prey. “It would be my pleasure. Ninon.”

“Athos,” the man replies; and he gasps as Ninon immediately surges up against him, pushing his back against the wall and taking advantage of his open mouth.

“Charmed,” she murmurs against his lips. “My place or yours?”

And at the end of the alleyway, unseen by either of them, there is the swish of a cloak as a watching figure departs, to make her report to her employer.

 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 The Musketeer shoulder guard (sometimes called a _pauldron_ ).
> 
> 2 Flea and Adèle are playing [_piquet_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Piquet).
> 
> 3 [_Primero (prime)_](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Primero).


End file.
